Tupac: greatest rapper live

When we pulled into the hospital's emergency entrance, Aunt Gloria was already there, pacing outside. She spotted us and waved frantically.

"Kanny! It's happening now. She's in labor!"

We hurried through the double doors, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting us immediately. Nurses bustled around, their shoes squeaking against the shiny linoleum floors. The bright lights and beeping machines made the air feel tense.

Dad found the desk and spoke with a nurse. "My wife, Pattie Shakur, she's in labor. Can I see her?"

"She's in delivery, sir. You'll have to wait here for now," the nurse said, pointing to the waiting room.

Dad paced back and forth, running his hands over his head. Aunt Gloria tried to calm him. "Kanny, she's in good hands. Don't wear a hole in the floor."

"I know, I know," Dad said, sitting down for a moment but immediately standing back up. "I just… I want to be there."

Meanwhile, I sat in a chair, my legs swinging, trying to imagine what my baby sister would look like. "Is she here yet?" I kept asking.

After what felt like an eternity, a nurse came into the waiting room with a big smile. "Congratulations! It's a healthy baby girl!"

Dad let out a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing for the first time that day. "Thank God," he said, laughing as he hugged Aunt Gloria. "A girl, huh? My little princess."

Aunt Gloria beamed. "I knew it would be a girl. She's going to be spoiled rotten!"

I jumped up, practically bouncing on my toes. "Can I see her? Please?"

The nurse led us to the maternity ward. Inside the room, Mom looked exhausted but radiant. She held a tiny bundle wrapped in a pink blanket.

Dad rushed to her side, kissing her forehead. "You did amazing, Pattie. She's beautiful."

Mom smiled weakly but proudly. "Meet your daughter, Kanny."

Aunt Gloria peered over her shoulder. "Oh, she's precious. Look at those tiny fingers!"

I climbed up on a chair to get a better view. My baby sister's eyes were shut, and her little nose wrinkled as she stretched.

"She's so small!" I said, laughing. "What's her name?"

"We have already decided to name her Sekyiwa," Mom said, her voice soft.

"Really, Sekyiwa? It is a really good name?" I asked, my excitement making everyone chuckle.

Dad grinned. "Yeah, big brother. What do you think?"

"She's beautiful," I said, my voice full of pride.

For a few days, Dad took a week off work. Me and Dad started to take care of Mom. Aunt Gloria would bring the food for us. She was there all day because she had her own family. During this week, Dad's younger sister also came to visit. My little sister didn't do much except poop all day, and at night, she cried and woke everyone up. Me and Dad would take turns changing her diapers.

The hospital room was full of other pregnant women or those experienced in childcare, and they helped me learn to care for my baby sister.

During this time, I still went to school, where Aunt Gloria would drop me off. That week, I became good friends with RZA. Music class became our favorite because we could mess with the instruments.

After 3–4 days, Mom was finally discharged. At home, Aunt Gloria came every day to help, and Dad's week off ended.

Dad joked, "Thank God I don't have to take care of that little devil anymore. Even PAC wasn't that hard to handle!"

Mom called out, "Kanny, bring your butt here and take care of your daughter."

Dad, whose relief was short-lived, groaned, "Ayyy fine, I'm coming."

I laughed at Dad, who looked hilarious trying to change a diaper.

Mom turned to me. "PAC, you bring your butt here and help your dad."

I groaned dramatically, "Why, why, why always me? Please, God, get me out of this hell."

Mom and my baby sister were the happiest, as they seemed to enjoy torturing Dad and me for fun.

In week I go in hood to collect the bottle cap to play various types of games Were in the school RZA always show his bottle cap collection were he has the most amount of bottle cap. RZA's collection was unmatched. "Look at this one," he bragged, holding up a rare find from the bodega.

When I wasn't helping at home, I was out in the neighborhood with my friends, exploring, playing, and learning from the older kids. The hood was alive with activity, and it felt like every corner had its own game or gathering.

One of my favorite things was the basketball court, where the teens dominated. It wasn't just a place for them; they made sure to teach us younger kids how to play. The court in Staten Island was a hub for everyone, not just the big guys. They believed in passing down the love for the game.

The unofficial leader of the court was James, the son of one of my dad's friends. James was the team captain and had mad skills. He always took time after their games to show us the ropes. "Alright, little man," he'd say, tossing me the ball. "Let me see that dribble!"

James and the other teens taught us everything—the rules, how to dribble, how to pass, and how to shoot properly. After their games ended, they would give us the court and leave their ball so we could practice.

RZA and I quickly became the captains of our own little squads. Our matches were intense! RZA was strong and used his physical advantage to dominate the court, but I relied on my speed and dribbling skills to keep up. Every game was a battle, but most of the time, RZA's team came out on top.

We'd often bet our lunch money on the matches. Even when I lost, RZA would laugh and say, "Alright, PAC, let's go eat. My treat." He'd use the money he won to buy us lunch, and we'd sit on the court, talking about everything and anything while scarfing down sandwiches.

By 5 PM sharp, everyone was heading home. It was an unspoken hood rule—be home before the streetlights came on. For me, it wasn't just about the rules; it was also about avoiding Mom's wrath. She didn't play when it came to being late.

"PAC, you're lucky you're on time," she'd say, holding her wooden spoon threateningly.

The games, the laughter, and the friendships we built at that court became some of the best memories of my childhood. It wasn't just about basketball—it was about community, growth, and knowing that even in the toughest times, we had each other.

After basketball practice, RZA and I loved to dive into other games with the neighborhood kids. One of our favorites was hide-and-seek.

But in the hood, hide-and-seek wasn't just a simple game—it was a full-on mission. Before each round, we'd huddle together to set the rules. "Nobody crosses the main street," RZA declared, pointing to the busy avenue. "If we don't set boundaries, we'll be looking for hours."

Everyone nodded in agreement. The designated hiding area was big enough to make it fun but not so big that someone could disappear completely. The game was serious business, and running through alleyways, stoops, and abandoned lots made it feel like we were part of a secret mission.

RZA and I always teamed up. We had a system: he'd scout for the best hiding spots while I acted as the lookout. "Over here, PAC," he whispered one time, leading me behind a stack of crates near the corner store. We stayed as quiet as possible, holding back laughter when we heard footsteps nearby.

"Found you, RZA!" one of the older kids shouted, but by then, RZA had already darted out of sight, laughing as he sprinted toward the base. I wasn't as fast, but I used my speed to confuse the seekers, zigzagging through the alleys.

The games sometimes lasted for hours, with everyone running and shouting, the sound echoing through the streets. Even the older folks would smile, watching us dart around with pure joy.

Hide-and-seek wasn't the only game we played. Stickball was a Saturday tradition, and when we weren't on the court or playing tag, we'd sit on the stoop trading bottle caps. RZA had the biggest collection, and he'd always show it off. "Check this out," he'd say, pulling out a rare cap he found at the bodega.

The hood rules applied to all games: be home by 5 PM. "Don't make me come find you," Mom would yell from the window if I lingered too long.

"PAC, let's play one more round," RZA would plead.

"You trying to get me whooped?" I'd laugh, already halfway down the block on my way home.

Despite the rules, the hood was our kingdom, and the games brought us together in ways that felt bigger than just fun. They were our escape, our challenge, and our way of learning to work as a team. Whether it was basketball, hide-and-seek, or stickball, every game carried its own stories and memories, shaping the bond between us and the community.

Author

By the way any black Americans. I offended anyone I not from America I am writing I see in the internet or research on the chatGTP.

You can give suggestions. Support the story with power stone. Comments more because the next morning I reading your comments I am motivated to right more chapter for you guys.

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